the forest for the trees
by mermaiddrunk
Summary: A companion piece to "Call Me When You Get This", told from a different POV.


**A/N: A companion piece to "Call Me When You Get This". Hopefully this makes it a bit clearer. **

**Disclaimer: **Characters are not mine. If they were, they would be treated with so much more dignity and respect.

* * *

You'd like to think you're self-aware. That you're smart enough to see the forest for the trees. Or, at least you would be, if you knew what that expression really meant. You think it has something to do with acknowledging what's right in front of you, but the dictionary app on your phone says it has something to do about discerning an overall pattern from the masses and you shrug it off, because you like your definition better. So this self-awareness thing, you've always been pretty good at it – or so you thought, until Kurt came over one Saturday night with a bottle of that unpronounceable pink fizzy stuff and said something like, "God, Rachel, are you serious? You're so fixated on your idea of how you think things are _supposed_ to be, you completely miss out on how things actually are. You did it with Finn, you did it with your _My Fair Lady_ audition and you're doing it now with _her_." Then he hiccupped and poured himself another drink.

Your default reaction at that point, was to scowl at your best gay and swipe the bottle from him. And as you brought the cold, sticky rim to your lips, you thought, "He's ridiculous. There's no way she likes me like _that_. I would know if things were changing." But they were changing and you did know it.

There's another expression, one that goes, "you never miss a good thing until it's gone". This one's pretty self-explanatory, it's also unfortunately apt. It's not that you didn't appreciate what you had with her, in fact, you'd argue and have with Kurt on numerous occasions, that your friendship with her was one of the most important relationships in your life. The late night phone calls, the lingering hugs, the weekend trips – she is (was) your best friend. And really, that's why you were so upset when you called to say goodnight only to discover that there was someone else in her room. That's why you felt vaguely…betrayed. Not because she was about to be intimate with someone else, but because you didn't know about it first. At least, that the story you spin for the first three days.

But by the time you've replayed her messages to the point that you've memorized every hitch in her breath, every crack and sigh in her voice, you know that it has nothing to do with friendship anymore. And self-awareness, you think, is a bitch.

She doesn't call you again after that. And you don't call her, not because you're mad anymore, but because you're afraid. You think maybe you were always afraid. Days turn into weeks and you begin to miss her in a way that becomes a physical ache.

When something happens in class, the first thing you think of is her, how she'll react when you rehash the story, how those green-gold eyes of hers will narrow into slits as she laughs and calls you a "dork". Those weeks turn into a month and then two and finally you find yourself sitting with your phone cradled in your hands, your heart beating faster than you ever thought it could. You're sweating, more nervous than you were before Charlotte introduced you to her cousin who played Barbra's understudy for both _Funny Girl_ and _I Can Get It for You Wholesale. _It rings once, twice and you think of how ironic it would be if it went to voice mail, ironic but also romantic, since you've already got your declaration of love planned out and practiced. But after three rings, someone picks up and it's not the voice you were expecting, the voice that makes your pulse race and those butterflies in your stomach do pirouettes.

"H-hello?" You sound uncertain, though the voice is familiar. "Is Quinn in?"

"No, this is Jules. Is that Rachel?"

Your heartbeat picks up and you nod frantically before realising that your actions go unseen. "Yes," you murmur and ask, "When will Quinn be back please?"

"Uh," there's a pause that makes your pounding heart drop to the pit of your stomach. "She's out...with someone. Last time she didn't come home until the next morning." Another pause and you feel the hot sting behind your eyes. "You should have called earlier, Rachel. You really did a number on her."

"Okay, thank you," you manage to whisper and hope you've disconnected the call before you burst into tears.

You think about her often, then not so often, then hardly at all.

Hanukah goes by – your dads come to visit. They ask about her and you lie. You say she's great, that you saw her a few weeks ago. You make up an elaborate story about how well she's doing in her screenwriting course, how you've read her latest, Woody Allen-esque piece, how you think they'd like it. They laugh and you feel sick. You're not ready to tell them that your friendship's in tatters. If you don't say it out loud, maybe it isn't true.

In January, you audition for the part of Janet in the NYADA spring production of _Rocky Horror_ and lose out to a pitchy third-year named Audra Reeves. That same week Finn comes to visit Kurt. He's looking good. He's started a small band with some of his soldier friends or whatever they're called, he's dating again. The last night of his visit, you have sex with him on your couch while the TV's on mute and images of some minor-league baseball game flashes in the background.

You cry after he comes and tell him you're just overwhelmed.

After he falls asleep, you take a shower and dial her number for the first time in months, only to put down after two rings.

In February, on Valentine's Day, you audition for the lead role in an off-Broadway production. It's being directed by one of your lecturers, though you haven't had a class with her since your second year. Two weeks later, you get the role.

When Kurt comes over with Brent, Josie and that girl who looks like a mongoose, but whose name you never quite remember, you're already on your third drink and well on your way to inebriated. It's a pleasant feeling, one you rarely allow yourself, since most of your classes and rehearsals are morning ones. They let you get away with it, assuming that you're celebrating your fortune rather than drowning your sorrows. After all, you're young, considerably attractive, remarkably talented and about to be in a critically recognized production – what more could you want?

The next morning, as Kurt's holding back your hair and you're puking foul, bitter and acidic liquid back into the toilet bowl, all you can think about is her.

Your first performance is in May. Your fathers are going to be there. You think half of Lima is going to be there. Really, there's only one person you want there. So, you get on a train, sit next to a large man who smells of meat product and for just over an hour, think about what you're going to say to her.

Eventually, when you call, all you get is voicemail and this time, you don't have a romantic declaration of love or some sweeping apology. All you have is a simple request, one you really hope she'll respond to.

_This is Quinn Fabray, you know the drill._

"Quinn? It's Rachel Berry. Are you there? I, um, I just got off at New Haven. I thought maybe we could get coffee. Call me when you get this. I…I'm here."

...


End file.
